


Hurt

by Just_Us



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Backstory, Bottom Negan, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reverse roles, Slow Burn, Top Rick, Weird Fluff, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:24:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Us/pseuds/Just_Us
Summary: The roles are reversed. Rick is in charge and Negan is forced to submit.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's really short but I plan on making the next chapters longer. I'll try to update sometime next week, if school doesn't get in the way.

 

What the hell was going on?

His eyes burned and sweat was seeping through his shirt. His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to control his breathing.  Negan couldn’t process what was happening fast enough. Shifting his weight idly, Negan attempted to get control over himself.

“You. Belong. To me." 

The words brought Negan's attention back to the man in front of him.

"Your people belong to me. Your supplies belong to me. Everything that you own is no longer yours, do you get that?” 

Negan could hear people screaming and crying in the background. He swallowed hard and steadied his breathing.

“I’m not hosting a fucking party here, Negan. This is not a check-yes-or-no situation. You. Do not. Have anything to offer me other than your supplies. You have people to provide for? Tough shit!” 

Negan shuddered.

“You and your little group are gonna be helping me out with that now. Do you understand?”

Negan breathed in deeply, trying to keep himself steady. “I-” he stopped, then started again, steeling himself. “I understand."

He understood the game. Give them what they want and let them be on their way.

 

 


	2. Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like a nightmare; a horrific and tragic nightmare.

Darkness. That's all there was. Above, beside, it swirled around him and crowded the edge of his vision. Don't get him wrong. He wasn't festering in a pool of depression so deep that sunlight ceased to exist, it was just...the sky. The sky, held aloft by the screams of the dying, had an eerie, inky sameness to it. The sky was a blanket of cold, a blanket of darkness. It had appeared weeks before the first walkers, and people didn't think much of it, much less him. He wanted to laugh at his past self.

Now, his days and nights were comprised of darkness. He woke to black, fed himself cold rations, dusty water, or nothing at all. He stood amidst the blackness, feeling along the jagged ground for his bat. His bat. He almost wanted to laugh. This was modern-day, so modern the apocalypse had already begun, and the only weapon he'd managed to get his hands on had been a wooden bat covered in nails with the nonsensical yet somehow appropriate name of 'Lucille'; after his late wife.

Not much longer now; he could feel it. Something was coming. Maybe salvation. Probably death. Their moans were getting louder, the crunching of their rotted feet against the festering ground almost like a gunshot in the otherwise silent day or night, he couldn't tell anymore. They had smelt him a few days ago, finally, and begun their slow yet tireless pursuit. He had ran, but out of habit more so than the desire to live.

His wife had been taken from him, but he had promised her, before she had turned, before he'd had to end the life of the only person he's loved up until now, that he would do whatever it took to survive. So he ran. Branches, shards of glass, paper, bullet casings, torn and dried limbs. He categorized every crunch as it sounded beneath his worn sneakers. It kept him calm, categorizing the sounds; it reminded him of home, somehow.

He ran past apartment buildings, past shops with missing walls, homes with boarded windows. Rose bushes in a dozen different hues spread out in profusion, heavy with blossoms. They reluctantly gave way to showy azaleas, hyacinths, hollyhocks, and pansies, violets, petunias, impatiens, daffodils, and mums. Climbing morning glories and moonflowers covered old statues with bursts of blue and red and white, and arbors laden with climbing roses hurt the eyes with their color. It looked like a war zone, rubble blocking the streets and empty cars lining the asphalt. It was a war, he supposed, but an impossible war against inevitable death. He ran past cross-streets, dodging the largest of obstacles with ease. If there was one good thing from this hell he was living, it was the level of physical fitness he'd obtained.

He could hear them behind him, clamoring and roaring and screaming those terrible, terrible screams of the undead. He ran faster. After minutes, hours, days maybe, he wasn't sure (he was never sure anymore), the screaming ceased. He slowed his feet to a steady jog, attempting to calm his heart rate but knowing it was futile. Above him, at the top of a steep but strangely clean hill, was his destination. The Saviors, his wife had called them, although he had no idea why. It was safe there, she had said, although he had no idea how she knew.

He slowed to a walk now, so sure of his safety he missed the quiet snuffles behind him until it was too late. He felt a searing pain in his leg, looked down to see the jaws of a walker clamped securely down on the fleshy part of his right thigh. He could feel the poison travel through him, the eerie numbness his wife had warned him against chasing it through his veins.

His vision tilted, his world spun. He cracked a wry smile.

So this is how it ends, he thought.

Somewhere within him, he found some sort of sadistic desire to keep moving, to keep fighting, despite the low chance of survival. He raised Lucille above his head, smashing it down upon the skulls of the unfortunate, victorious Walker. Stunned, it unlatched it's now shattered jaw and collapsed upon the dusty ground of the hill.

He staggered, dragging his right leg behind him, towards the camp. Maybe they could...no. He shook his head. No point raising his hopes only to die. Although, he mused, it'd be a fitting way to end his already pitiful life. He'd been born unlucky, he supposed.

He was near the top, but his eyesight was reduced to a thin slit as his eyes began to close of their own accord. There was a massive tree at the top of the hill, and what looked like a bearded man, but he honestly couldn't tell.

The numbness had competed it's journey; he couldn't feel anything, not even the chill in the air.

He had reached the top now, and he collapsed onto his back, victorious. He smiled a bloody smile, and closed his eyes slowly.

His last thought was jumbled, but involved an apology to his deceased wife, he was sure.

* * *

When he awoke, he became aware of two things. First, there was light here, wherever 'here' was. Warm sunlight filtered through those fancy, slanted wood shades, and fell gently across the room. Second, the pair of bright green eyes that stared down at him.

He sat suddenly, and terrified "Agh!" leaving his lips as his right hand searched, desperately, for the ever present handle of Lucille. He was met with only the cotton of a quilt, and he reared back in terror.

"Calm down, i'm not a walker." the person in front of him spoke. He blinked rapidly, trying to get a better look. It sure looked like a human, a girl, actually, with clean (clean!) blonde hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders and porcelain skin not marred with dirt or scars. She was pretty in a plain way, he mused, but then shook himself. Now really wasn't the time.

"You should be grateful Chiron was able to save you. I thought for sure you were a goner."

"I--agh..w-who are you?" he asked, stuttering.

She smirked, green eyes flashing. "We call ourselves the saviors."

 

The second time he woke, he reacted a little better. The sunlight he was expecting, the green eyes too, but not the words that fell out of her mouth (nor the teasing tone in which she delivered them).

"Try not to faint next time, okay?"

He furrowed his brows. "What?"

"You fainted, big guy." She was smirking again, eyes flashing with...was that humor?

"Shut up." he mumbled under his breath, looking down at the quilt that covered him up to his chest. A deep purple, it was comprised of a smiling silver moon surrounded by bright yellow stars. It was happy in a way he'd hadn't seen in...well, forever, really.

"I didn't say anything."

He looked up, right into her bright eyes. He'd intended to respond smartly, with some clever, crushing blow, but found himself distracted.

She pushed his pants up, showing him the bloodied bandages wrapped around his leg. His breathing began to speed up, and it was only the warm, soft hand on his forearm that brought him back to earth.

"You're lucky," she said. "He was able to stop it before it spread." She produced a mirror from behind her and held it up for him. The first thing he noticed was how long his hair was getting, the inky black hanging shabbily past his eyebrows. Second, he noticed the dark rings beneath his eyes. He cringed.

"You're alive, so be grateful," was all she said before turning to leave.

It was all he could do to nod softly before she was gone, leaving the scent of lavender and the impression of flashing grey in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! Don't forget to comment!


	3. You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably already tell, the background story for Negan is different from the story told in TWD. I added the zombie bite scene because I plan on using that later in the story and Negan didn't lose his leg because that would make things complicated later. I hope that didn't complicate or agitate anyone too much.  
> On that note... I love writing mpreg and I was thinking about incorporating that in the story later. I want to know if anyone wanted me to do that or if I should scrap the idea.

It was a week before he was strong enough to leave the bed, and even then he needed Chiron - the bearded man from the hill - to help steady him. He was led slowly to the porch, sat down in a wicker rocking chair across the card table from Chiron (in an identical chair).

He was handed a beer can and opened it with an easy snap. He settled back in his chair, and looked up to see the older man's eyes appraising him carefully.

"So, uh..." he trailed off slowly.

"Negan," he offered.

"Negan," the older man began again. "Tell me about yourself."

So he did.

He told Chiron about his previous life; his wife, his job, his home. He told of the three hell-ish yet wonderful years before the Walkers had come. He quieted for a few moments, sipping away at his can.

"It was a tuesday when the Walkers finally entered Virginia," he said slowly. "I remember because I had to go to work every Tuesday, and my wife and I were running late. We ran out of the apartment; I'm not even sure if we even locked it." He smiled fondly at the memory of his mother.

"It happened so fast. One second we were walking down the sidewalk, and the next people were screaming and running and...you know. They just rounded the corner and started tearing into people. We ran and ran and ran and we made it to an empty street. We managed to survive for who knows how long. I thought we were fine, I thought we would survive through this but she..." He trailed off, looked down at the empty can and was surprised to see it clenched tight in his fist." One of 'em had scratched her or something, I'm not really sure, but she didn't notice and then she did and she just started screaming and... She told me to come here, she said it's be safe. Said she'd heard from some other survivors we crossed paths with. She was talking so fast, I don't really know what she said. She told me to kill her, but I didn't want to and I refused. She kept saying 'Promise me, Negan. Promise me.' and I was just trying to get her out but, I guess she turned, because her eyes became lifeless and her skin was grey and she tried to bite me, I think, so I-I..."

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, looking at his lap. "Sorry," he whispered.

Chiron shook his head. "No, no. Nothing to be sorry about. That was obviously very..." he struggled to find the word.

"Scarring?" Negan offered.

"Perhaps," said the older man. "It's only fair you get to talk about it, anyway."

Negan looked up. "I'm not sure fair is the right word, sir."

Chiron cracked a small, sad smile. "I'm afraid you're right, Negan."

* * *

Her name was Jordan Jackson.

She was in her late 30s, and had been come here with her eccentric and devastatingly wealthy husband a week before the first walkers had arrived.

It had happened on a rescue mission.

Two survivors had met up and managed to hack a cell tower, sending S.O.S. messages until someone responded. That someone was Sophia, who had apparently inherited her father's talent with technology and hacked a different tower remotely. They had thought they were home free, she said. They thought they were safe. They lowered their guard.

Thalia, a close friend of Jordan, had sacrificed herself, Jordan mentioned callously, casually. She'd dived into the crowd of the Walkers, let them tear away at her flesh...

Jordan trails off there.

She'd thought they were done for.

Apparently not.

This Negan said with a wry smile.

No. She shook her head. Apparently not.

* * *

He had been there three weeks before he was finally able to leave the house. Jordan introduced him to all the other survivors.

First was Luke, the other survivor who had traveled with Jordan. With sandy hair and these glowing blue eyes, he was devastatingly handsome in a completely disturbing way. He looked too perfect, too pristine, and he would eye Jordan with something akin to hunger. Negan decided he didn't like Luke all that much.

Next was Michelle. Or rather, Michelle and Mark. The boy had introduced himself alongside Michelle. They seemed inseparable. Negan didn't have much to say about either of them, only that they were so totally in love, it made his heart hurt a little watching them interact.

Last was Anthony, who disturbed Negan a lot more than he'd like to admit. Hair darker than Negan's own hung nearly to his slumped shoulders, and his gaunt eyes look black in most lights. His skin was olive, but was so pallid and wane it looked nearly white. All black clothes hung off his thin frame, and metal bits and bobbles glittered on his hands, wrists, belt, and even ears.

In all honestly, he looked more like the undead than the Walkers did.

* * *

Luke was the first to go.

It was the sort of surprise that wasn't all that surprising.

Luke and Negan had been on a small scouting mission, just a mile past the border. They'd been briefed by Jordan, trained and prepared with Chiron, and fully equipped with mail armor. (What was this, the medieval era?).

A few Walkers had appeared, just five. Easy enough for a guy with a bat and another with a gun and fucking armor. But Luke had panicked, pushed Negan towards them, abandoned him, ran away. It was like the Walkers knew, though, knew how wrong that was, because they'd abandoned Negan in a terrified, huddled mess.

All alone, Luke hadn't stood a chance.

....

Next to go, horrifyingly enough, was Mark.

Once again, it was just a scouting mission, just him and Negan.

Difference was, Mark wasn't a coward. There had been 25, at least, that time. Like Thalia, he'd made the decision all on his own.

....

Things were getting quieter, but the disturbing kind of (dangerous, terrifying) quiet.

That dreaded darkness was settling, encroaching over even the so-called safe lines of the Savior territory. It was over a breakfast of toast and cold peaches that Jordan finally said what needed to be said.

"We need to leave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the story so far. Please leave a comment!! I'll try to update again next week.


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